Sky on Fire
by Glitterdune
Summary: Seth gets drunk and lets Dean handcuff him to the bed. Dean Ambrose/Seth Rollins SLASH. Warnings: Slash, bondage, dark smut, burnplay, drunk!Seth, predatory!Dean


Disclaimer: All characters are the property of their respective owners. I'm not associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any copyrighted material or characters featured in this fic. No copyright infringement is intended, etc. Please don't attempt to hold your cigarette smoke in time to this story! I'm looking at you, Street of Alice. Really, what would Roman say?

Authors notes:

Here's a dark and kinky little something for you guys to enjoy before Money in the Bank tonight! My eternal gratitude to Street of Alice (of "No Holds Barred" fame) for beta-ing this for me, giving such awesome feedback and helping me weed out any Britishisms.

Sky on Fire

The night has been swift and dark. Full of tender failings and brutal excesses – the night has torn past them both entirely, leaving them wild-eyed and ragged. Fuck sleep; they killed it when the stars rose and it was nothing: the shadow of need, the reflection of impulse. They both circle a far more seductive flame, and they circle it closely; a fire that smothers light, burning the torch that bears it.

And now the bed has been stripped of its sheets and Seth lies undressed against the bare mattress, drunk and tilting close to euphoria. And although the blinds are pulled across the window, a soft morning light has crept through and the hotel room is brushed and underlit with muted gold. Strange, how this colour can still seem tender.

Roman is away for a day and a night, visiting family in Pensacola – a day and a night, left to themselves. And here is where they have ended up: with the light choking through the blinds, and the lamp broken on the floor, and Seth's wrists handcuffed together behind the iron bars of the headboard.

The night has fled past them and the morning has been lingering on for several eternities. It seems like hours ago now that the sunrise had first shone through the glass of the window, breaking itself into red and orange pieces on the floor. And when Dean had seen the colour of it reflected in Seth's eyes he'd gone and drawn the blinds, and he'd come back through the darkness with his belt and Seth had _wept_ (and for what – more? less? Do either of them know, without Roman here to remind them?)

But Seth is very drunk, after all, and beautifully perplexed with it in the half-light, having been broken and put back together more times than he can count. His wrists are scraped and aching from the handcuffs. The marks will be clearly visible in the daylight. Testaments to his failure here tonight; he came here and he begged Dean for this – he _begged_ him, despite all of the warnings.

And truthfully, he knew full well what would happen. He knew full well where Dean would lead him, in the shadow of Roman's absence. And Roman will know too, of course, he'll see the marks. He'll see _all _the marks and he'll know exactly what they've done without him; exactly what they've driven each other to.

_Well I'm sorry_, thinks Seth plaintively, _I'm sorry, but I needed it. How was I supposed to wait? How was I supposed to say no to this?_

He gazes contritely up at the only source of light he can find, above him: the brutal red glow of Dean's cigarette, the mimic of a slow-burning sun. Dean holds it between his lips as he straddles Seth's chest, arrogant and rumpled looking in his soft t-shirt and boxers, his hair tousled, his gaze sharp and contemptuous. He likes pinning him down – not that Seth could move anyway, with his hands cuffed together like this. But he likes to pin him down. He likes to be above him.

And Seth is feeling very far beneath him now; his hands clasping together in the handcuffs as though he's praying. He's not sure what he's supposed to be praying for. It's not this. You don't pray to God for this. Not that anyone up there would listen to a thing he had to say anyway: _thou shalt worship no other gods before me._ Isn't that how it goes? And Seth worships _two_. Seth's _fucked. _

He turns his head to glance with sudden anxiety at the bottle of whiskey on the nightstand. The movement makes the room tilt alarmingly, but his mind swoops drunkenly with it like a pitching ship, keeping pace. The whiskey bottle is half empty. Dean hasn't touched a drop of it all night. No wonder, then, that Seth feels so deliciously out of control – even though it feels like hours since he last had a drink. Hours, surely, since Dean last filled the shot glass to the brim and tilted it to Seth's lips for him. Cold glass, liquid fire. Plying him with drink after drink between the torments and the pleasures of the night.

And last time he'd told Seth not to swallow it; to hold it in his mouth, burning against his tongue and stopping him from speaking as effectively as any gag. He'd pushed Seth's legs apart and talked him to desperation as he worked a slick finger inside him, stretching him open, stroking him apart until he was trembling and writhing against Dean's hands.

A second finger, and all Seth could do was hold the liquor in his mouth and _take_ it. His mouth on fire, his mind soaked and dripping pleasure, his back arching off the bed as those fingers had driven him deeper and deeper from himself. And by the time Dean had thrust a third finger in, Seth was completely lost. His eyes dazed and drugged looking, his hips bucking shamefully onto those clever, twisting fingers; desperate to feel them moving deeper, harder, closer inside of him.

His face flushed and his eyes fever bright. He had been _ablaze. _And he had tilted his head back and swallowed that mouthful of whiskey for the fucking _pleasure _of it. Rules be damned, consequences be damned – for an ecstatic, blazing moment he was filled and burning inside at both ends, and nothing else in the world mattered.

But there had, of course, been repercussions, and if Roman had been there he never would have allowed it to go on so long. But Roman, unusually, hadn't intervened... He hadn't tried to stop it at all... (and here Seth loses track of his thoughts, and frowns in confusion at the bottle.)

"Aw," Dean says, softly. "You thirsty again?" He takes a slow drag of the cigarette and runs his eyes lazily down Seth's body. "Did you want another shot?"

Seth's gaze slides hopefully back to him. He swipes his tongue over his split lip, pressing tentatively at the cut. It feels sore and swollen under his tongue, and the alcohol will probably sting like hell against it but he's _parched._ He nods, and yelps – Dean has blown his smoke out quite casually and slapped him in the face, hard enough to redden his cheek.

"You're fucking _drunk_," he remarks coolly. "I already said you can't have another drink. Like less than an hour ago, Seth."

"I forgot," Seth replies, but somehow he manages to make it sound like an invitation. He looks shyly up at him through his eyelashes, and Dean considers him in silence for a long moment. But he is feeling indulgent, and there is still a little whiskey left in the shot glass.

He reaches across and dips his fingertips into the amber liquid. He leans in close and slides them over Seth's mouth, dragging whiskey across his lips. An apparently careless gesture – although his touch lingers needlessly over his split lip, and his gaze is very dark upon the wound.

It fucking _stings_ and Seth's eyes flare with heat. His tongue darts out to lick sweetly at the liquor on the tips of his fingers. Dean gives him two fingers to suck on, pushes them into his mouth right down to the knuckle and holds his tongue down as he moans and swallows around them, squirming heatedly against the mattress.

"_Look_ at you," he murmurs absently. He slides his fingers across to Seth's pulse point and tilts his head aside to gaze at the dark trail of lovebites blemishing at his throat. He takes a long drag of his cigarette and stares, tracing bruises beneath his fingertips.

And Seth shuts his eyes and allows himself to drift, aching beneath the gentleness of his touch, unsteady despite of it. The sensations are beginning to overwhelm him. The lingering, honeyed sting of smoke liquor against his bruised lips. The soft light through the blinds, and the heat of Dean's body and now, beneath it all, tendrils of cigarette smoke threading quietly through his thoughts.

"What the fuck is Roman gonna say?" And oh, that _voice_. His whole being sways helplessly towards that voice, taunting him softly through the haze.

"He's gonna come back and see what you've begged me for. All fucking drunk and bruised up for me. All the fucking marks. What's he gonna say, huh?"

"Roman?" Seth murmurs. He's cast into a sudden doubt, his mind stirred to confusion by the stroking of Dean's fingertips against his collarbone. Deceptively gentle. "Is - is Roman here?"

"No he's not _here_, Seth." Dean regards him with affectionate contempt, his eyes gleaming sharply in the half light. "But y'know, it's actually kind of funny how often you feel the need to fucking _ask_ for him. He's still not fucking here. And I don't know if I should be flattered or fucking insulted that you keep hoping he'll step in."

Seth gazes uneasily up at him. His hands twist suddenly in the handcuffs and pull them taut and Dean laughs, blowing smoke from his nose.

"You gonna get scared again, Seth? God, you're fucking sweet when you're wasted. You really fucking are. You know that?"

He flicks his cigarette casually over the handcuffs, dropping hot ash between Seth's fingertips until he jerks and struggles, his eyes suddenly wild.

"Oh c'mon, don't be ridiculous. Just _relax_. Lemme take care of you."

He shifts back and casually grasps Seth's dick in his hand, shushing him when he flinches and whines. It's been hours since he was last touched like this, _hours,_ and it doesn't take much at all before he's squirming and arching into Dean's touch, hot and eager and hopelessly overstimulated.

"Yeah, that's right," Dean croons. "So fucking hard, aren't you?" He touches him in long squeezing strokes, palming over his sensitive head until Seth twists his hips and moans, trying desperately to fuck upwards into the maddening, relentless pressure.

"Y'know, when you came over here Roman had only been gone for like an _hour_. That's how long you managed to stay away from me, Seth. One fucking hour." He pauses to draw on the cigarette, his gaze sharp and affectionate.

"That's pretty fucking pathetic, even by your standards. But I guess you're just a fucking slut for this. I mean, you knew exactly what'd happen if I got you alone. You fucking _love _that Roman isn't here to stop me. Just like the old days, huh?"

Seth nods, panting –

"Yeah, don't I fucking know it. You want me to fuck you up, Seth? You wanna come tonight?"

"_Please, _yeah – "

"Then don't fucking talk," Dean murmurs, and his eyes are dark and full of hunger. "Don't even fucking breathe."

And he drags on the cigarette and leans down to kiss him possessively, coaxing his lips apart and breathing smoke out into his mouth.

Seth shivers when he understands what's being asked of him, arousal twisting uncertainly in the pit of his stomach. But he submits immediately; inhales, drawing the smoke down into his lungs to the shadow of a deep, gentle ache.

"That's right. That's it. Hold it in for me," Dean breathes, his gaze rapturous. "Just fucking lie there and hold it in for me."

And he leans back and palms his own dick through his boxers, achingly hard, grinding off the edges of his desire. He holds the cigarette loosely between his lips and he watches, and the white smoke drifts up and veils his eyes.

Seth allows his eyes to fall closed, flushing at the intimacy of this game. His attention turns inwards to the ache in his chest. The dull, throbbing pain that both frets and calms him, and drifting in this way he becomes gently disoriented, as though the smoke in his lungs is clouding his thoughts.

The sun presses closely against his eyelids, pulsing red and hot to the rhythm of his heartbeat. Bright - as though the blinds at the window have been opened again. He wonders distantly if Roman has opened them, before recalling his absence with some confusion.

But the blinds have surely been opened... he can hear quite clearly outside the window, as though the sound of the city has been let in with the light. He can hear the low drone of morning traffic on the highway east to - (and he drifts further here, for where _are_ they, anyway? A hotel? Yes - of course, a hotel - and the roads outside are full of cars, and there are flocks of birds in the sky, and grey pigeons on the balcony-)

A flurry of wings startlingly close at hand makes him flinch and pull at the restraints again, his eyes flying open. But Dean hasn't moved. He sits above him, watching him quietly in the muted glow of the morning (for the blinds are still closed, and the room is dim, and the city is fast receding into a cowed silence at the light in his eyes.)

He draws on the cigarette and exhales it down onto Seth, watching the smoke swirl over the tense, shivering lines of his body. Seth stares up at him dazedly, his head beginning to spin.

"That's it. That's what I wanna see," Dean murmurs, his gaze lingering over Seth's mouth. "Now breathe it out. C'mon, sweetheart, nice and slow for me."

Ever obedient, he exhales and watches the smoke curling up to the ceiling with obvious pleasure, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded.

Dean takes a slow drag of the cigarette. And Seth can hardly snatch a breath of air before he's right there again, claiming his lips in a demanding kiss as he breathes his mouth full of hot smoke. Seth gasps it in and holds it without even having to be fucking told – desperate, eager creature – pliant and hot beneath him, his eyes wide and dark with arousal.

His head spins under the combination of too much alcohol and too little oxygen, and the room is beginning to blur itself uneasily at the edges. He shuts his eyes and feels himself sinking immediately into a deep and heavy blackness, like a stone sinking through dark water.

And he's been here before, many times, but something is wrong. He doesn't usually fall so far without reaching the steadying bedrock of Roman's presence – his touch, his voice, leading him steadily back to himself. And something is wrong because there's nothing but silence down here; silence and deeper darkness, and beneath that, oblivion. His unease grows quickly to alarm: he will lose himself down here, far from the surface. Alone. The thought frightens him. He can't help but come up for air – can't help but gasp in, breathe out, _disobey_.

And Dean doesn't even fucking hesitate. He stubs out the cigarette on Seth's chest, shoves one hand over his mouth and has his nostrils pinched shut with the other before he can even cry out. Seth struggles beneath him, his eyes very wide.

"What are you doing?" Dean snarls. "What the fuck are you doing, huh? Did I say you could breathe out?"

And Seth needs to breathe now, he _really _needs to breathe now and the cigarette burn is blossoming exquisitely into pain, piercing through the duller ache in his chest like a white-hot arrow. He makes a choked off, desperate noise against Dean's hands, trying desperately to drag some oxygen into his lungs. But Dean just tightens his grip savagely, his eyes rapt and glittering – he chokes him until his eyes grow black with fear and he starts wordlessly to beg; grinding his hips pleadingly up against Dean's leg.

Only then does he let him go – and god knows Roman would disapprove of _that – _but Roman is not here, and Dean's eyes are very dark as Seth twists against the mattress, gasping and coughing.

There is a dangerous amount of heat in his gaze, and when Seth notices it he stills and quietens, warily dropping eye contact. He watches Dean's hands instead as he reaches for the lighter and the pack of cigarettes by the bed – watches his fingers trembling as he lights another.

"Look how fucking hard you are," Dean murmurs. The lighter flares up in the gloom, throwing matchlight against his features and casting his eyes into shadow. Unreadable, and he bares his teeth as the light fades.

"You're fucking _wet, _Seth. You know that? Dripping all over yourself like a fucking girl. _Look_ at me," he snaps, and watches Seth's gaze stutter up to meet him. His eyes are darker than he's ever seen them, his pupils blown startlingly wide.

"This is what fucking gets you off, isn't it?"

Seth whines incoherently. The thrill and the panic and the sharp pain of the cigarette burn rush through his body, intermingling, making it difficult for him to focus. It hurts, it all fucking _hurts_ but he knows he can fly higher than this; knows he can fall further than this. He needs _more._

And so he bites compulsively at his split lip; pulling at the wound with his teeth until the blood wells up and the pain heightens to a bright, frenzying pulse that keeps pace with his own heart.

"Dean," he begs, his eyes fixed pleadingly to the glowing embers at the tip of the cigarette. "Dean _please_–"

"_What_?" Dean snaps, his eyes flashing violence. "What do you want now? What do you fucking want, huh? You want _this?_" He flicks the hot ash from his cigarette onto Seth's chest, and Seth jerks and moans.

"Oh, _fuck_–" he whines, "_please _yeah–"

"You need to stop begging me like that," Dean warns, but he's panting; so fucking excited, so close to losing control. "Roman isn't around to pull me off you, you fucking understand me? And you're so – you're so fucking _wasted._ Look at you. I can do whatever I fucking _want_ to you."

Seth licks at his bloodied lip slowly, and watches Dean's eyes darken as they track the movement. He's pushing and he knows he shouldn't, he knows it's fucking dangerous but he can't _help_ it – he sucks his bleeding lip into his mouth and _moans_, rolling his hips up wantonly against Dean.

Dean snarls. His patience draws thin and fucking shatters in the space of a heartbeat. He shoves Seth roughly back down into the mattress and drags the lit cigarette in a swift, brutal line down the curve of his hipbone.

Seth jerks and _screams, _his hands yanking the handcuffs taut. It fucking _hurts _– an ecstatic pain, bright and vicious against his skin and he's aching despite of it – because of it – his dick twitching helplessly and dripping precome onto his belly. He whimpers beneath Dean, his hair damp and tangling blonde and black against the mattress.

"Oh, fuck," Dean pants, "_fuck_." He shoves his boxers down and wraps a hand around his own dick, squeezing tightly_. _His eyes flutter closed for a long second, but when they open again they are dark with intent and glittering with cold fire.

"Do you have any idea what you fucking sound like when you _scream _like that? Any idea at all?" His hand pumps slowly at his dick, teasing himself with long, rough strokes. "You need to shut up, Seth. You need to shut up, or I don't know what I'm gonna fucking do to you."

He drags on the cigarette and leans in to claim Seth's lips in a hard and bruising kiss, thrusting his tongue forcefully into his mouth. And Seth is trembling and incoherent, but when Dean breathes out smoke into his mouth he drags it all in to his lungs just as before, and he holds his breath, arching up to grind his erection desperately against Dean's thigh.

Dean pushes his hips back down into the mattress and leans in to drag his tongue possessively across Seth's sore mouth.

"You want me to stop?" he murmurs, and sucks heatedly at his bloodied lip.

Seth shakes his head, holds his breath, his eyes dark and pleading.

"No?" Dean leans back and regards him with practised disdain. "Why doesn't that fucking surprise me?"

And he drags the burning tip of the cigarette down the curve of Seth's other hipbone in an excruciatingly slow, curving line, a mirror of the last, trailing fire across his skin. Seth jerks and shudders silently, his eyes wide and shivering bright with tears.

Dean lets the cigarette hang from his lips and presses Seth back down into the mattress almost gently, for he's arched up against him again without even realising it. He slides the thumb of each hand through the mess of precome on Seth's stomach before dragging them slickly down his hips, tracing the long red marks either side of Seth's aching dick.

It soothes the sting of the burn, but Seth squirms and flushes hot with humiliation, his eyes squeezing tightly shut and forcing hot tears down his cheeks. Dean gazes down at him with undisguised hunger.

He's _asked _for this. He's fucking_ begged _for this, and Roman isn't here, and the sense of Dean's own power leaves him almost breathless. He takes hold of his own hard dick again and starts stroking himself from base to tip with long, languid strokes.

"You should tell me to stop" he murmurs, his gaze flicking darkly from Seth's eyes to his mouth to his dick, still flushed and hard against his belly, the head still slick and shiny with precome. He draws sharply on the cigarette and breathes smoke out through his nose. "You _really_ fucking should."

And he narrows his eyes against the silence, flicking his cigarette ash onto Seth's dick in a quick, impulsive movement. An ember falls, glowing red and winking out in the descent – brushing hot against him. And it's a small movement; silent and scarcely perceptible. But Seth startles and trembles beneath it, and so disordered are his senses that he reels shivering into ecstasy, as though the touch of a dying ember were something as glorious and significant as the brush of an angels wing.

His eyes have flown wide open, his face shining wet with tears and he can do nothing but _stare, _feverishly, at the glow of the cigarette. His eyes are dazed and drowning dark. Lit from beneath by desire, glittering like water through a crack in the earth.

Dean is jerking himself off fast and rough now, panting, the grey of his eyes almost entirely eclipsed by black.

"Tell me to stop," he says unsteadily, and his voice catches in his throat.

But Seth just holds his breath, begging him desperately with his silence. Still so hard, still leaking so fucking shamefully all over himself, still so fucking _obedient_, despite everything.

"Tell me to fucking _stop_, Seth or I swear - I swear to fucking god -"

Seth's vision is beginning to be obscured by black spots, blossoming and dwindling before his eyes in curious, hypnotic patterns. He needs to breathe. He's going to _faint_. And still he won't end this – he's soaring too high now to do anything but crash and burn into darkness.

And only Dean could make him crave this. Only Dean could lead him to such heights and make him _beg _to be pushed over the edge. He takes as much pleasure in the fall as Seth does, and when he finally crashes down to earth the impact breaks them both to pieces, equally, every fucking time.

And they both feel it now, calling them. This has gone on long enough, Dean knows, and he growls with something like frustration – a low and hungry sound. At last, he pushes them over the brink. Too much, too fast, too far. He grazes the burning end of the cigarette along the full length of Seth's aching dick, and watches the darkness surge up to devour them both.

The pain of it is so exquisite that Seth would like to _scream_. It is unimaginable. A crack of lightning against his soul, a needle through his heart – white-hot and vast and deep and cruel, and if it had a colour it would be the grey of Dean's eyes.

Smoke and slate, frost and steel – and struggling beneath the pain extraordinary thoughts begin to rush in on him, the loudest of which reads (nonsensically) "_here it is."_

Here it is – beneath the agony and shrouded in fire, the very thing that he was seeking. And swooning into ecstasy he finds it, pressed up against his very core like a bullet or an apple seed. He hadn't even known he was looking for it. But there are no words left no name it – no breath left to speak its name.

He breathes out, at last: white smoke rises from his lips and curls up to the ceiling, and he senses himself plummeting away from it at a frightening pace. He pants helplessly, disorientated, and for a lurching, bewildering moment sees a thousand burning embers around him like a sky full of dying suns.

When he shudders, they shudder too and converge all at once; falling inwards to a single, red-hot point. The glow of Dean's cigarette. Seth swoons into confusion, and faints.

Roman would never have let him fall to such a black, silent place. Roman is not here. And Dean is blazing into free-fall; he stubs out the cigarette on his chest and slaps him hard across the face; shocking him awake.

Seth gasps and struggles weakly and Dean slaps him again, and then _again_, so hard that his vision flashes white. He cries out, sobs helplessly and comes all over himself without even being touched.

And Dean has moved up his chest, pinning Seth's shoulders to the mattress with his knees as he jerks himself off. He yanks Seth's head up by his hair, panting, eyes _blazing_ –

"You stupid, sick _fuck,_" he pants, "c'mon baby, hold your fucking tongue out – I know what you want – I know what you fucking need-"

He pulls Seth's head forward with a growl and pumps his dick roughly over the slick heat of his tongue, drags it against his bruised, bleeding lips until he's coming hard, shooting his load right down his throat and watching as Seth swallows every fucking drop.

They have crash landed. They have razed and burnt and broken the ground beneath them. And they stare at each other, panting, and try to feel if they have broken themselves in the process.

And there is a moment where neither of them know what to do next. This is usually Roman's domain, after all – the ending of the game, the aftercare – this is where they follow his lead without question. But Dean, deciding that nothing of any importance has been damaged, improvises enthusiastically in his absence.

Perhaps he massages feeling back into Seth's arms a little too roughly, and lingers at the marks on his wrists for an inappropriate amount of time. But he pulls him up into his arms and kisses him heatedly, and speaks to him so quietly that only Seth can hear what he says.

When Roman leads them to the shower it's usually to clean them off or calm them down. Dean backs Seth up against the cold tiles and touches him all over beneath the spray, stroking every bite and bruise until Seth's knees buckle and he has to be held up against the wall.

But Dean drapes a bathrobe round him very affectionately, afterwards, and towels his hair roughly for him, dropping his head to peer searchingly into his eyes. He doesn't bother to make the bed up again like Roman would, he just throws all the sheets back on. And he forgets entirely to make Seth drink any water, so a hangover is definitely on the horizon.

But he drags Seth into the bed with him and pulls him in very close against his body, one hand encircling his wrist, and the other tangled possessively in his hair. It's a tenderness all of Dean's own, and Seth is soothed and pleased inordinately by it.

They lie together in quiet languor, wrapped in a tangle of white sheets. And although the blinds are pulled across the window, the light of the morning filters through and the hotel room is brushed and underlit with gold.

The city wakes up around them. They lead each other into sleep.


End file.
